


Paper

by Star Struck Crossiant (AMatterOfLifeAndDeath)



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst and Feels, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:16:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25077490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AMatterOfLifeAndDeath/pseuds/Star%20Struck%20Crossiant
Summary: Kili is left as King of the Mountain after the death of Fili and Thorin.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9
Collections: FiKi Week 2020





	Paper

**Author's Note:**

> This work has some graphic imagery, and very dark themes. If this is going to bother you, please do not read.

Paper

Kili stared down at the map in his hand. It was the same map that had led to the reclaiming of Erebor, his vast mountain realm. His not by choice, but by sheer idiotic luck – fate with blind eyes and useless wings. This map in his hand had led his Uncle to believe in the possibility of reclaiming his fabled homeland, had brought great armies to clash, and nations to be reforged anew. This paper in his hand had ruined his life just as it was supposed to begin by forcing him to take up the kingship of a land he was never meant to lead.

Today was the one year anniversary of the reclaiming. A great feast was being prepared, exotic meats and spices from far flung lands, their smells wafting down the corridors filled by his subjects, all engrossed in the industry of wealth. In the year since the battle the kingdom had been mostly restored to its former glory, new vision overlaying the old ruins and enhancing it, smoothing the edges of the sharp destruction left in the wake of the loss of thousands, the gold and jewels of the mines of the mountain poor substitutes for the gems of the heart he was missing.

Anniversaries were of great import to dwarves, even the smallest of events being marked and celebrated with the passage of time, and there was no event so spectacular in recent memory than the battle gone by these last twelve months. How ironic, he felt, that the one year anniversary of any event in the dwarven calendar should be marked by the element of paper. Paper being chosen for how difficult it was to obtain, how precious and rare a commodity it was. The means of manufacture of paper was an ancient art practiced very little by his kin, as it did not draw the eye and delight with its brightness. That did not mean that they did not see its value, that they did not appreciate the art that went into its making, It was just that the value for dwarves in paper was the ability to afford it, and no piece of paper in all of their history was worth more than the one that he held in his hand right now.

He smoothed his hand across the page, letting his fingers linger on the outline of the Lonely Mountain that was, remembering the days of the journey. He remembers his uncle’s hands working the same path across its smooth surface, the look in his uncle’s eyes far away and hopeful. His fingers glide of the maroon splotches on the edges of the canvas, the stains of his uncle’s blood soaked into the surface like a sponge, dried now to this innocuous brown, and thinks that his brother’s blood also resides in this paper, soaked in by memory if not in reality. Paper has the power of capturing both it would seem.

His hand takes the paper and twists it, crumpling it into a mass in his hand, hiding the stains and words and lines of the past into a confused bundle in his fist. He wonders how is it not so easy to erase the past in this way, make it simply cease to exist with the turn of the wrist. He realizes that it might be so, if he is brave enough, if he is bold enough to make the one choice he has been warring with himself over since he saw their lifeless eyes and caressed their cold fingers upon his waking after the battle.

He shuffles to the middle of his bed, too vast, too gaudy in its finery for the likes of him. Third in line, he should never have had to be crushed under the weight of the golden shackle in the shape of a crown on his head. He takes out from his pocket a solitary match, another remnant of the journey here, one much more suited to his tastes. He remembers watching his brother make the matches at their kitchen in Erid Luin, his dexterous fingers working with the delicate pieces of wood to turn them into something much more useful then the finest artists of his mountain. He would give anything to have another handful of these matches at his disposal, each one crafted with absent care by hands he loved so well. He only has one left now, but he holds it with a purpose and thinks about the small magic of flame. He thinks of its beauty and its destruction, and in so doing, puts match to rough stone of his headboard and sets it ablaze. He touches the resulting flame to fragile memory made real in the paper in his hand, and watches the past being consumed. He lets the ball of flame fall on the rich coverings of the bed, feels the heat begin to build around him as he lays down and contemplates the cleansing power of fire as it catches his robes alight.

After all, nothing burns quite so well as paper.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a large departure from what I normally have posted, but it's what came to mind from the prompt for some reason. I go where the muse takes me, and this time she took a turn down the dark path through the trees. As a note of interest should anyone care, yes, the one year traditional anniversary gift is paper - it is called the Paper Anniversary.


End file.
